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Main Data
Author: Wendy Brown-Baez
Title: Heart on the Page A Portable Writing Workshop
Publisher: BookBaby
ISBN/ISSN: 9781543983319
Edition: 1
Price: CHF 8.00
Publication date: 01/01/2020
Content
Category: Pädagogik
Language: English
Technical Data
Pages: 186
Kopierschutz: kein Kopierschutz
Geräte: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
Formate: ePUB
Table of contents
HEART ON THE PAGE: A PORTABLE WRITING WORKSHOP is an inspirational guide for individual writers and writing instructors who work in institutions, non-profit organizations, and healing centers. It interweaves stories of workshops held in community spaces with practical advice on how to guide, encourage and inspire writers who may not think of themselves as writers but have a story to tell. Suggestions of specific poems and prompts to access intuitive guidance and unblock creativity are interwoven with writing exercises. Writing and sharing stories activates the ability to find meaning after trauma, loss, or transition. The book is valuable for individuals who write on their own and staff or volunteers who work either one-on-one or in groups. It is a resource for those wishing to incorporate the arts as a part of integrative medicine and those who wish to develop deeper self-awareness for their own self-care while providing service and care for others. Heart on the Page is a compilation of the life's work of Wendy Brown-Báez, creator of Writing Circles for Healing. She has facilitated writing workshops for more than fifteen years in community spaces including human service and arts non-profits; institutions such as schools, prisons and libraries; healing centers; spiritual centers and yoga studios; bookstores and arts organizations. The poems and prompts were used successfully in her workshops and she offers tips and suggestions on how to engage participants with physical or emotional health challenges.
Table of contents
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Preface

F or ten years, the best years of my youth, the years when I had energy and desire, I lived in a commune. These were my childbearing years, the years when I was skinny and strong, with plenty of idealism and chutzpah. I learned the rigors of self-discipline, to take last place and to be of service to the poor. I learned to live on one strong cup of coffee and one meal, to bask a turkey all night in the kitchen with an ex-con and not be conned by his charm, to travel with just my thumb, a Bible tucked in my bag, and faith that all humankind was created to love one another. I learned to be grateful for daily miracles such as a hot pot of tea while on the road or a heart-to-heart conversation around the campfire. I learned that a life of compassion, idealism, and service did not mean that life was always merciful. While my best friend and I were in New York City gathering money for airfare to join our brothers and sisters in Europe, we made friends with a young man named Fred. One day he told us that the reason he liked us was that we transcended the darkness on a daily basis. We wore embroidered Mexican blouses and wrapped up against the cold in rebozo s. Mine was woven of purple, pink and turquoise and hers was sunset-orange and earth-brown, in contrast to New Yorkers who wore black, navy, and occasionally gray. I think about his perception of us. Based on our colorful appearance and our lively conversations, he believed that we were warding off the demons of doubt, fear, despair, greed, selfishness, and vanity. Little did I know that the struggle to transcend the darkness within would go on, year after year. Rare moments of joy, momentarily comprehending mystical teachings, and the sense of connection with divinity, would have to compensate for the ordinary moments of meals to be cooked, laundry to be schlepped to the laundromat, unpaid bills, heartbreak, doctor visits, and the grinding of daily poverty. My life was later filled with love so strong it was terrifying; of grief so deep, it felt like an abyss; of hopes crushed and the ordinary task of putting one foot in front of the other to get up, go to work, pay the bills, make the meals, and soothe my wounded spirit almost more than I could do. I know many of us faced depression those first fragile years after the group unraveled and we had to de-program ourselves from group think to be ourselves. For me, falling in love swept me out of the painfulness of betrayal, the devastating realization I had given my life and the lives of my children into the hands of a crazy person. First I fell in love with stretching into freedom, then it was individual lovers who came into my life, and after I returned to the states, it was the love of writing that kept despair at bay. I signed up for an extended university writing class in my hometown. I had written poems, short stories and novels for years before I joined the commune. I had stopped completely, feeling my work was not masterful enough to hold up to the scrutiny of perfection that we were coached to attain. The stories of my experiences were overflowing and I felt compelled to get as much of it down on paper as I could. It was therapeutic and healing and gave me fresh perspectives on the person I had been and the one I was on my way to becoming. Eventually, I left my hometown to move back to the Southwest and there, I reconnected with the love of my life, Michael Woehler. He was gregarious, funny, warm-hearted, affectionate, honest, and lived his life in a creative fury. We fell deeply in love, soulmates and explorers. After a few months as we headed into winter, his mo